Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(113)

I don’t say anything.

He looks down at the ring in his hand. “Wasn’t just one, either. It was a new girl every night. For years. S’like I couldn’t help myself.” He swallows. “But the one thing I could say is that I never fell in love with any of those girls. Not one of them. So, no. I don’t love Layla.” He shakes his head, his voice rising. “I can’t. I can’t. It would be—”

“An insult to Emily’s memory?” I ask drily.

He dips his head. “Yeah. That.”

“Do you think it would be more insulting than what you’re doing now?” I ask levelly. “Do you honestly think that Emily wanted you to ruin the rest of your life over her? You think she wanted you to treat a girl who loved you like utter crap, in her memory?” I shake my head. “Zack, if Em heard what you said to Layla in that garden, she’d probably be in tears herself.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he groans, wiping a hand over his face. “I can’t just forget her.”

“You don’t have to forget someone to move on,” I say, looking at the brick wall opposite us. “When my mum died, it consumed my life. It doesn’t, anymore. Some days, I don’t think of her at all. It doesn’t mean she’s gone.”

He starts to protest, and I cut him off. “You didn’t cheat on Emily, Zack. She was dead. And you were a lonely, heartbroken eighteen-year-old kid who had bad coping mechanisms. That’s it.” I reach out and brace a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to let it go. You’re not honouring Emily, you’re just obsessing over her death. You gotta let it go.”

He grimaces, but before he can respond, the door behind us swings open again.

Luke almost trips over us as he falls out of the doorway. His shoulders slump when he sees the two of us. “Jesus. What are you two doing?” His voice rises with anger. “Why the Hell didn’t you answer your phones? I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Zack, what the Hell were you thinking, hitting Donny in front of everyone? It’s already all over social media, for Christ’s sake. As if we weren’t already in enough crap, now you’re assaulting people!? I—”

“I think I’m in love with Layla,” Zack tells him flatly, cutting his tirade short.

That takes the wind right out of Luke’s sails. For a moment, he’s silent, mouth open. “Oh.” He leans against the brick wall, obviously processing that. “Oh.” I watch him swallow. “Me too.”

My eyebrows raise. “When did you come to that conclusion?”

“At the wedding,” he says quietly.

“You knew at the wedding, and you still broke up with her?” Zack asks, coughing to clear his throat. “Mate, you’re worse than me. At least I was in denial.”

Luke dips his head in a curt nod. “I broke up with her because I was in love with her. I thought it was an irresponsible match.”

“Why?” I ask, confused. “I’ve never seen you happier.”

“Yes. Well. It was stupid. And after this past week without her—” he shakes his head. “I’m sick of being a coward.”

I nod. “Me, too.”

“Me, three,” Zack adds morosely. “Poor Layla. We romanced her half to death, then dropped her as soon as she got the balls to tell us how she felt. It’s not her fault she fell in love with three total idiots.”

“We were stupid to think we could teach her anything,” I agree, my mind flashing back to Mother’s Day. I remember Layla dragging me to her pretty pink flat and curling up next to me. I don’t want you to be alone right now. “She was already better at loving someone than all of us combined.”

The three of us are silent for a moment, reflecting. Unseen cars rumble down the nearby road. Horns honk and people laugh as they walk by on the street.

Zack slips Emily’s ring carefully into the pocket of his jeans and stands, taking a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, with more energy than I’ve seen from him all week. “So, how are we gonna get her back, then? ‘Cause something tells me she’s gonna be stubborn.”





SEVENTY-TWO





LAYLA





As I wait in line at the Heathrow baggage check, I can feel hundreds of eyes on me.

It’s been like this for days now. I barely left my hotel room all week, but whenever I did venture down the street to buy food or tampons, people blatantly stared at me. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But now, as I glance around the queue at the busy airport check-in, I know that I’m not. People really are looking at me. A gum-chewing teenage girl by the coffee shop is squinting at me like she’s trying to work out who I am. A cleaner has been absent-mindedly mopping the same square foot of floor for about five minutes straight as she openly stares at me. I meet her gaze, and she flushes, finally looking back down again.

“Excuse me,” a male voice says behind me. I turn and look into the face of a balding middle-aged man in a green sweater. He studies me. “Are you La—”

“No,” I say, turning back and glancing up at the huge clock hanging on the wall. My flight to New York leaves in thirty-five minutes, and I’ve not even checked my luggage yet. I’m running late. Me. Layla Thompson, the girl who’s usually at every appointment an hour early, is running so late that she might not make her flight.